Poems — Volume 1

O might I load my arms with thee,
   Like that young lover of Romance
Who loved and gained so gloriously
   The fair Princess of France!

Because he dared to love so high,
   He, bearing her dear weight, shall speed
To where the mountain touched on sky:
   So the proud king decreed.

Unhalting he must bear her on,
   Nor pause a space to gather breath,
And on the height she will be won;
   And she was won in death!

Red the far summit flames with morn,
   While in the plain a glistening Court
Surrounds the king who practised scorn
   Through such a mask of sport.

She leans into his arms; she lets
   Her lovely shape be clasped: he fares.
God speed him whole!  The knights make bets:
   The ladies lift soft prayers.

O have you seen the deer at chase?
   O have you seen the wounded kite?
So boundingly he runs the race,
   So wavering grows his flight.

—Ah, hero-love! unloose thy hold:
   O drop me like a curséd thing.
—See’st thou the crowded swards of gold?
   They wave to us Rose and Ring.

—O death-white mouth!  O cast me down!
   Thou diest?  Then with thee I die.
—See’st thou the angels with their Crown?
   We twain have reached the sky.

I

When the Head of Bran
   Was firm on British shoulders,
God made a man!
   Cried all beholders.

Steel could not resist
   The weight his arm would rattle;
He, with naked fist,
   Has brain’d a knight in battle.

He marched on the foe,
   And never counted numbers;
Foreign widows know
   The hosts he sent to slumbers.

As a street you scan,
   That’s towered by the steeple,
So the Head of Bran
   Rose o’er his people.

II

‘Death’s my neighbour,’
   Quoth Bran the Blest;
‘Christian labour
   Brings Christian rest.
From the trunk sever
   The Head of Bran,
That which never
   Has bent to man!

‘Be it written,
   That all I wrought
Was for Britain,
   In deed and thought:
Be it written,
   That while I die,
Glory to Britain!
   Is my last cry.

‘Glory to Britain!
   Death echoes me round.
Glory to Britain!
   The world shall resound.
Glory to Britain!
   In ruin and fall,
Glory to Britain!
   Is heard over all.’

III

Burn, Sun, down the sea!
Bran lies low with thee.

Burst, Morn, from the main!
Bran so shall rise again.

Beam, Star, in the West!
Bright burns the Head of Bran the Blest.

IV

Crimson-footed, like the stork,
   From great ruts of slaughter,
Warriors of the Golden Torque
   Cross the lifting water.
Princes seven, enchaining hands,
   Bear the live head homeward.
Lo! it speaks, and still commands:
   Gazing out far foamward.

Fiery words of lightning sense
   Down the hollows thunder;
Forest hostels know not whence
   Comes the speech, and wonder.
City-Castles, on the steep,
   Where the faithful Seven
House at midnight, hear, in sleep,
   Laughter under heaven.

Lilies, swimming on the mere,
   In the castle shadow,
Under draw their heads, and Fear
   Walks the misty meadow.
Tremble not! it is not Death
   Pledging dark espousal:
’Tis the Head of endless breath,
   Challenging carousal!

The old coach-road through a common of furze,
   With knolls of pine, ran white;
Berries of autumn, with thistles, and burrs,
   And spider-threads, droop’d in the light.

The light in a thin blue veil peered sick;
   The sheep grazed close and still;
The smoke of a farm by a yellow rick
   Curled lazily under a hill.

No fly shook the round of the silver net;
   No insect the swift bird chased;
Only two travellers moved and met
   Across that hazy waste.

One was a girl with a babe that throve,
   Her ruin and her bliss;
One was a youth with a lawless love,
   Who clasped it the more for this.

The girl for her babe hummed prayerful speech;
   The youth for his love did pray;
Each cast a wistful look on each,
   And either went their way.

I

Now, this, to my notion, is pleasant cheer,
   To lie all alone on a ragged heath,
Where your nose isn’t sniffing for bones or beer,
   But a peat-fire smells like a garden beneath.
The cottagers bustle about the door,
   And the girl at the window ties her strings.
She’s a dish for a man who’s a mind to be poor;
   Lord! women are such expensive things.

II

We don’t marry beggars, says she: why, no:
   It seems that to make ’em is what you do;
And as I can cook, and scour, and sew,
   I needn’t pay half my victuals for you.
A man for himself should be able to scratch,
   But tickling’s a luxury:—love, indeed!
Love burns as long as the lucifer match,
   Wedlock’s the candle!  Now, that’s my creed.

III

IV

You nice little madam! you know you’re nice.
   I remember hearing a parson say
You’re a plateful of vanity pepper’d with vice;
   You chap at the gate thinks t’ other way.
On his waistcoat you read both his head and his heart:
   There’s a whole week’s wages there figured in gold!
Yes! when you turn round you may well give a start:
   It’s fun to a fellow who’s getting old.

V

Now, that’s a good craft, weaving waistcoats and flowers,
   And selling of ribbons, and scenting of lard:
It gives you a house to get in from the showers,
   And food when your appetite jockeys you hard.
You live a respectable man; but I ask
   If it’s worth the trouble?  You use your tools,
And spend your time, and what’s your task?
   Why, to make a slide for a couple of fools.

VI

You can’t match the colour o’ these heath mounds,
   Nor better that peat-fire’s agreeable smell.
I’m clothed-like with natural sights and sounds;
   To myself I’m in tune: I hope you’re as well.
You jolly old cot! though you don’t own coal:
   It’s a generous pot that’s boiled with peat.
Let the Lord Mayor o’ London roast oxen whole:
   His smoke, at least, don’t smell so sweet.

I’m not a low Radical, hating the laws,
   Who’d the aristocracy rebuke.
I talk o’ the Lord Mayor o’ London because
   I once was on intimate terms with his cook.
I served him a turn, and got pensioned on scraps,
   And, Lord, Sir! didn’t I envy his place,
Till Death knock’d him down with the softest of taps,
   And I knew what was meant by a tallowy face!

VIII

On the contrary, I’m Conservative quite;
   There’s beggars in Scripture ’mongst Gentiles and Jews:
It’s nonsense, trying to set things right,
   For if people will give, why, who’ll refuse?
That stopping old custom wakes my spleen:
   The poor and the rich both in giving agree:
Your tight-fisted shopman’s the Radical mean:
   There’s nothing in common ’twixt him and me.

IX

He says I’m no use! but I won’t reply.
   You’re lucky not being of use to him!
On week-days he’s playing at Spider and Fly,
   And on Sundays he sings about Cherubim!
Nailing shillings to counters is his chief work:
   He nods now and then at the name on his door:
But judge of us two, at a bow and a smirk,
   I think I’m his match: and I’m honest—that’s more.

X

XI

Now, giving and taking’s a proper exchange,
   Like question and answer: you’re both content.
But buying and selling seems always strange;
   You’re hostile, and that’s the thing that’s meant.
It’s man against man—you’re almost brutes;
   There’s here no thanks, and there’s there no pride.
If Charity’s Christian, don’t blame my pursuits,
   I carry a touchstone by which you’re tried.

XII

—‘Take it,’ says she, ‘it’s all I’ve got’:
   I remember a girl in London streets:
She stood by a coffee-stall, nice and hot,
   My belly was like a lamb that bleats.
Says I to myself, as her shilling I seized,
   You haven’t a character here, my dear!
But for making a rascal like me so pleased,
   I’ll give you one, in a better sphere!

XIII

XIV

The sermon’s over: they’re out of the porch,
   And it’s time for me to move a leg;
But in general people who come from church,
   And have called themselves sinners, hate chaps to beg.
I’ll wager they’ll all of ’em dine to-day!
   I was easy half a minute ago.
If that isn’t pig that’s baking away,
   May I perish!—we’re never contented—heigho!

Stanzer Thal, Tyrol

The old grey Alp has caught the cloud,
And the torrent river sings aloud;
The glacier-green Rosanna sings
An organ song of its upper springs.
Foaming under the tiers of pine,
I see it dash down the dark ravine,
And it tumbles the rocks in boisterous play,
With an earnest will to find its way.
Sharp it throws out an emerald shoulder,
   And, thundering ever of the mountain,
Slaps in sport some giant boulder,
   And tops it in a silver fountain.
A chain of foam from end to end,
And a solitude so deep, my friend,
You may forget that man abides
Beyond the great mute mountain-sides.
Yet to me, in this high-walled solitude
Of river and rock and forest rude,
The roaring voice through the long white chain
Is the voice of the world of bubble and brain.

I

Within a Temple of the Toes,
   Where twirled the passionate Wili,
I saw full many a market rose,
   And sighed for my village lily.

II

With cynical Adrian then I took flight
   To that old dead city whose carol
Bursts out like a reveller’s loud in the night,
   As he sits astride his barrel.

III

We two were bound the Alps to scale,
   Up the rock-reflecting river;
Old times blew thro’ me like a gale,
   And kept my thoughts in a quiver.

IV

Hawking ruin, wood-slope, and vine
   Reeled silver-laced under my vision,
And into me passed, with the green-eyed wine
   Knocking hard at my head for admission.

V

I held the village lily cheap,
   And the dream around her idle:
Lo, quietly as I lay to sleep,
   The bells led me off to a bridal.

My bride wore the hood of a Béguine,
   And mine was the foot to falter;
Three cowled monks, rat-eyed, were seen;
   The Cross was of bones o’er the altar.

VII

The Cross was of bones; the priest that read,
   A spectacled necromancer:
But at the fourth word, the bride I led
   Changed to an Opera dancer.

VIII

A young ballet-beauty, who perked in her place,
   A darling of pink and spangles;
One fair foot level with her face,
   And the hearts of men at her ankles.

IX

She whirled, she twirled, the mock-priest grinned,
   And quickly his mask unriddled;
’Twas Adrian! loud his old laughter dinned;
   Then he seized a fiddle, and fiddled.

X

He fiddled, he glowed with the bottomless fire,
   Like Sathanas in feature:
All through me he fiddled a wolfish desire
   To dance with that bright creature.

XI

And gathering courage I said to my soul,
   Throttle the thing that hinders!
When the three cowled monks, from black as coal,
   Waxed hot as furnace-cinders.

They caught her up, twirling: they leapt between-whiles:
   The fiddler flickered with laughter:
Profanely they flew down the awful aisles,
   Where I went sliding after.

XIII

Down the awful aisles, by the fretted walls,
   Beneath the Gothic arches:—
King Skull in the black confessionals
   Sat rub-a-dub-dubbing his marches.

XIV

Then the silent cold stone warriors frowned,
   The pictured saints strode forward:
A whirlwind swept them from holy ground;
   A tempest puffed them nor’ward.

XV

They shot through the great cathedral door;
   Like mallards they traversed ocean:
And gazing below, on its boiling floor,
   I marked a horrid commotion.

XVI

Down a forest’s long alleys they spun like tops:
   It seemed that for ages and ages,
Thro’ the Book of Life bereft of stops,
   They waltzed continuous pages.

XVII

And ages after, scarce awake,
   And my blood with the fever fretting,
I stood alone by a forest-lake,
   Whose shadows the moon were netting.

Lilies, golden and white, by the curls
   Of their broad flat leaves hung swaying.
A wreath of languid twining girls
   Streamed upward, long locks disarraying.

XIX

Their cheeks had the satin frost-glow of the moon;
   Their eyes the fire of Sirius.
They circled, and droned a monotonous tune,
   Abandoned to love delirious.

XX

Like lengths of convolvulus torn from the hedge,
   And trailing the highway over,
The dreamy-eyed mistresses circled the sedge,
   And called for a lover, a lover!

XXI

I sank, I rose through seas of eyes,
   In odorous swathes delicious:
They fanned me with impetuous sighs,
   They hit me with kisses vicious.

XXII

My ears were spelled, my neck was coiled,
   And I with their fury was glowing,
When the marbly waters bubbled and boiled
   At a watery noise of crowing.

XXIII

They dragged me low and low to the lake:
   Their kisses more stormily showered;
On the emerald brink, in the white moon’s wake,
   An earthly damsel cowered.

Fresh heart-sobs shook her knitted hands
   Beneath a tiny suckling,
As one by one of the doleful bands
   Dived like a fairy duckling.

XXV

And now my turn had come—O me!
   What wisdom was mine that second!
I dropped on the adorer’s knee;
   To that sweet figure I beckoned.

XXVI

Save me! save me! for now I know
   The powers that Nature gave me,
And the value of honest love I know:—
   My village lily! save me!

XXVII

Come ’twixt me and the sisterhood,
   While the passion-born phantoms are fleeing!
Oh, he that is true to flesh and blood
   Is true to his own being!

XXVIII

And he that is false to flesh and blood
   Is false to the star within him:
And the mad and hungry sisterhood
   All under the tides shall win him!

XXIX

My village lily! save me! save!
   For strength is with the holy:—
Already I shuddered to feel the wave,
   As I kept sinking slowly:—

I felt the cold wave and the under-tug
   Of the Brides, when—starting and shrinking—
Lo, Adrian tilts the water-jug!
   And Bruges with morn is blinking.

XXXI

Merrily sparkles sunny prime
   On gabled peak and arbour:
Merrily rattles belfry-chime
   The song of Sevilla’s Barber.

I

Whate’er I be, old England is my dam!
   So there’s my answer to the judges, clear.
I’m nothing of a fox, nor of a lamb;
   I don’t know how to bleat nor how to leer:
               I’m for the nation!
   That’s why you see me by the wayside here,
      Returning home from transportation.

II

It’s Summer in her bath this morn, I think.
   I’m fresh as dew, and chirpy as the birds:
And just for joy to see old England wink
   Thro’ leaves again, I could harangue the herds:
               Isn’t it something
   To speak out like a man when you’ve got words,
      And prove you’re not a stupid dumb thing?

III

They shipp’d me of for it; I’m here again.
   Old England is my dam, whate’er I be!
Says I, I’ll tramp it home, and see the grain:
   If you see well, you’re king of what you see:
               Eyesight is having,
   If you’re not given, I said, to gluttony.
      Such talk to ignorance sounds as raving.

You dear old brook, that from his Grace’s park
   Come bounding! on you run near my old town:
My lord can’t lock the water; nor the lark,
   Unless he kills him, can my lord keep down.
               Up, is the song-note!
   I’ve tried it, too:—for comfort and renown,
      I rather pitch’d upon the wrong note.

V

I’m not ashamed: Not beaten’s still my boast:
   Again I’ll rouse the people up to strike.
But home’s where different politics jar most.
   Respectability the women like.
               This form, or that form,—
   The Government may be hungry pike,
      But don’t you mount a Chartist platform!

VI

Well, well!  Not beaten—spite of them, I shout;
   And my estate is suffering for the Cause.—
No,—what is yon brown water-rat about,
   Who washes his old poll with busy paws?
               What does he mean by’t?
   It’s like defying all our natural laws,
      For him to hope that he’ll get clean by’t.

VII

His seat is on a mud-bank, and his trade
   Is dirt:—he’s quite contemptible; and yet
The fellow’s all as anxious as a maid
   To show a decent dress, and dry the wet.
               Now it’s his whisker,
   And now his nose, and ear: he seems to get
      Each moment at the motion brisker!

To see him squat like little chaps at school,
   I could let fly a laugh with all my might.
He peers, hangs both his fore-paws:—bless that fool,
   He’s bobbing at his frill now!—what a sight!
               Licking the dish up,
   As if he thought to pass from black to white,
      Like parson into lawny bishop.

IX

The elms and yellow reed-flags in the sun,
   Look on quite grave:—the sunlight flecks his side;
And links of bindweed-flowers round him run,
   And shine up doubled with him in the tide.
               I’m nearly splitting,
   But nature seems like seconding his pride,
      And thinks that his behaviour’s fitting.

X

That isle o’ mud looks baking dry with gold.
   His needle-muzzle still works out and in.
It really is a wonder to behold,
   And makes me feel the bristles of my chin.
               Judged by appearance,
   I fancy of the two I’m nearer Sin,
      And might as well commence a clearance.

XI

And that’s what my fine daughter said:—she meant:
   Pray, hold your tongue, and wear a Sunday face.
Her husband, the young linendraper, spent
   Much argument thereon:—I’m their disgrace.
               Bother the couple!
   I feel superior to a chap whose place
      Commands him to be neat and supple.

But if I go and say to my old hen:
   I’ll mend the gentry’s boots, and keep discreet,
Until they grow too violent,—why, then,
   A warmer welcome I might chance to meet:
               Warmer and better.
   And if she fancies her old cock is beat,
      And drops upon her knees—so let her!

XIII

She suffered for me:—women, you’ll observe,
   Don’t suffer for a Cause, but for a man.
When I was in the dock she show’d her nerve:
   I saw beneath her shawl my old tea-can
               Trembling . . . she brought it
   To screw me for my work: she loath’d my plan,
      And therefore doubly kind I thought it.

XIV

I’ve never lost the taste of that same tea:
   That liquor on my logic floats like oil,
When I state facts, and fellows disagree.
   For human creatures all are in a coil;
               All may want pardon.
   I see a day when every pot will boil
      Harmonious in one great Tea-garden!

XV

We wait the setting of the Dandy’s day,
   Before that time!—He’s furbishing his dress,—
He will be ready for it!—and I say,
   That yon old dandy rat amid the cress,—
               Thanks to hard labour!—
   If cleanliness is next to godliness,
      The old fat fellow’s heaven’s neighbour!

You teach me a fine lesson, my old boy!
   I’ve looked on my superiors far too long,
And small has been my profit as my joy.
   You’ve done the right while I’ve denounced the wrong.
               Prosper me later!
   Like you I will despise the sniggering throng,
      And please myself and my Creator.

XVII

I’ll bring the linendraper and his wife
   Some day to see you; taking off my hat.
Should they ask why, I’ll answer: in my life
   I never found so true a democrat.
               Base occupation
   Can’t rob you of your own esteem, old rat!
      I’ll preach you to the British nation.

I

‘Heigh, boys!’ cried Grandfather Bridgeman, ‘it’s time before dinner to-day.’
He lifted the crumpled letter, and thumped a surprising ‘Hurrah!’
Up jumped all the echoing young ones, but John, with the starch in his throat,
Said, ‘Father, before we make noises, let’s see the contents of the note.’
The old man glared at him harshly, and twinkling made answer: ‘Too bad!
John Bridgeman, I’m always the whisky, and you are the water, my lad!’

II

But soon it was known thro’ the house, and the house ran over for joy,
That news, good news, great marvels, had come from the soldier boy;
Young Tom, the luckless scapegrace, offshoot of Methodist John;
His grandfather’s evening tale, whom the old man hailed as his son.
And the old man’s shout of pride was a shout of his victory, too;
For he called his affection a method: the neighbours’ opinions he knew.

Meantime, from the morning table removing the stout breakfast cheer,
The drink of the three generations, the milk, the tea, and the beer
(Alone in its generous reading of pints stood the Grandfather’s jug),
The women for sight of the missive came pressing to coax and to hug.
He scattered them quick, with a buss and a smack; thereupon he began
Diversions with John’s little Sarah: on Sunday, the naughty old man!

IV

Then messengers sped to the maltster, the auctioneer, miller, and all
The seven sons of the farmer who housed in the range of his call.
Likewise the married daughters, three plentiful ladies, prime cooks,
Who bowed to him while they condemned, in meek hope to stand high in his books.
‘John’s wife is a fool at a pudding,’ they said, and the light carts up hill
Went merrily, flouting the Sabbath: for puddings well made mend a will.

V

VI

Full time there was before dinner to bring fifteen of his blood,
To sit at the old man’s table: they found that the dinner was good.
But who was she by the lilacs and pouring laburnums concealed,
When under the blossoming apple the chair of the Grandfather wheeled?
She heard one little child crying, ‘Dear brave Cousin Tom!’ as it leapt;
Then murmured she: ‘Let me spare them!’ and passed round the walnuts, and wept.

VII

Yet not from sight had she slipped ere feminine eyes could detect
The figure of Mary Charlworth.  ‘It’s just what we all might expect,’
Was uttered: and: ‘Didn’t I tell you?’  Of Mary the rumour resounds,
That she is now her own mistress, and mistress of five thousand pounds.
’Twas she, they say, who cruelly sent young Tom to the war.
Miss Mary, we thank you now!  If you knew what we’re thanking you for!

But, ‘Have her in: let her hear it,’ called Grandfather Bridgeman, elate,
While Mary’s black-gloved fingers hung trembling with flight on the gate.
Despite the women’s remonstrance, two little ones, lighter than deer,
Were loosed, and Mary, imprisoned, her whole face white as a tear,
Came forward with culprit footsteps.  Her punishment was to commence:
The pity in her pale visage they read in a different sense.

IX

‘You perhaps may remember a fellow, Miss Charlworth, a sort of black sheep,’
The old man turned his tongue to ironical utterance deep:
‘He came of a Methodist dad, so it wasn’t his fault if he kicked.
He earned a sad reputation, but Methodists are mortal strict.
His name was Tom, and, dash me! but Bridgeman! I think you might add:
Whatever he was, bear in mind that he came of a Methodist dad.’

X

XI

‘Why, that’s what I never look at in a letter,’ the farmer replied:
‘Facts first! and now I’ll be parson.’  The Bridgeman women descried
A quiver on Mary’s eyebrows.  One turned, and while shifting her comb,
Said low to a sister: ‘I’m certain she knows more than we about Tom.
She wants him now he’s a hero!’  The same, resuming her place,
Begged Mary to check them the moment she found it a tedious case.

XII

Then as a mastiff swallows the snarling noises of cats,
The voice of the farmer opened.  ‘“Three cheers, and off with your hats!”
—That’s Tom.  “We’ve beaten them, Daddy, and tough work it was, to be sure!
A regular stand-up combat: eight hours smelling powder and gore.
I entered it Serjeant-Major,”—and now he commands a salute,
And carries the flag of old England!  Heigh! see him lift foes on his foot!

‘—An officer! ay, Miss Charlworth, he is, or he is so to be;
You’ll own war isn’t such humbug: and Glory means something, you see.
“But don’t say a word,” he continues, “against the brave French any more.”
—That stopt me: we’ll now march together.  I couldn’t read further before.
That “brave French” I couldn’t stomach.  He can’t see their cunning to get
Us Britons to fight their battles, while best half the winnings they net!’

XIV

The old man sneered, and read forward.  It was of that desperate fight;—
The Muscovite stole thro’ the mist-wreaths that wrapped the chill Inkermann height,
Where stood our silent outposts: old England was in them that day!
O sharp worked his ruddy wrinkles, as if to the breath of the fray
They moved!  He sat bareheaded: his long hair over him slow
Swung white as the silky bog-flowers in purple heath-hollows that grow.

XV

XVI

‘“We stood in line, and like hedgehogs the Russians rolled under us thick.
They frightened me there.”—He’s no coward; for when, Miss, they came at the quick,
The sight, he swears, was a breakfast.—“My stomach felt tight: in a glimpse
I saw you snoring at home with the dear cuddled-up little imps.
And then like the winter brickfields at midnight, hot fire lengthened out.
Our fellows were just leashed bloodhounds: no heart of the lot faced about.

XVII

‘“And only that grumbler, Bob Harris, remarked that we stood one to ten:
‘Ye fool,’ says Mick Grady, ‘just tell ’em they know to compliment men!’
And I sang out your old words: ‘If the opposite side isn’t God’s,
Heigh! after you’ve counted a dozen, the pluckiest lads have the odds.’
Ping-ping flew the enemies’ pepper: the Colonel roared, Forward, and we
Went at them.  ’Twas first like a blanket: and then a long plunge in the sea.

‘“Well, now about me and the Frenchman: it happened I can’t tell you how:
And, Grandfather, hear, if you love me, and put aside prejudice now”:
He never says “Grandfather”—Tom don’t—save it’s a serious thing.
“Well, there were some pits for the rifles, just dug on our French-leaning wing:
And backwards, and forwards, and backwards we went, and at last I was vexed,
And swore I would never surrender a foot when the Russians charged next.

XIX

‘“I know that life’s worth keeping.”—Ay, so it is, lad; so it is!—
“But my life belongs to a woman.”—Does that mean Her Majesty, Miss?—
“These Russians came lumping and grinning: they’re fierce at it, though they are blocks.
Our fellows were pretty well pumped, and looked sharp for the little French cocks.
Lord, didn’t we pray for their crowing! when over us, on the hill-top,
Behold the first line of them skipping, like kangaroos seen on the hop.

XX

XXI

‘“’Twas Ensign Baynes of our parish.”—Ah, ah, Miss Charlworth, the one
Our Tom fought for a young lady?  Come, now we’ve got into the fun!—
“I shouldered him: he primed his pistol, and I trailed my musket, prepared.”
Why, that’s a fine pick-a-back for ye, to make twenty Russians look scared!
“They came—never mind how many: we couldn’t have run very well,
We fought back to back: ‘face to face, our last time!’ he said, smiling, and fell.

XXII

‘“Then I strove wild for his body: the beggars saw glittering rings,
Which I vowed to send to his mother.  I got some hard knocks and sharp stings,
But felt them no more than angel, or devil, except in the wind.
I know that I swore at a Russian for showing his teeth, and he grinned
The harder: quick, as from heaven, a man on a horse rode between,
And fired, and swung his bright sabre: I can’t write you more of the scene.

‘“But half in his arms, and half at his stirrup, he bore me right forth,
And pitched me among my old comrades: before I could tell south from north,
He caught my hand up, and kissed it!  Don’t ever let any man speak
A word against Frenchmen, I near him!  I can’t find his name, tho’ I seek.
But French, and a General, surely he was, and, God bless him! thro’ him
I’ve learnt to love a whole nation.”’  The ancient man paused, winking dim.

XXIV

A curious look, half woeful, was seen on his face as he turned
His eyes upon each of his children, like one who but faintly discerned
His old self in an old mirror.  Then gathering sense in his fist,
He sounded it hard on his knee-cap.  ‘Your hand, Tom, the French fellow kissed!
He kissed my boy’s old pounder!  I say he’s a gentleman!’  Straight
The letter he tossed to one daughter; bade her the remainder relate.

XXV

XXVI

For Mary had sunk, and her body was shaking, as if in a fit.
Tom’s letter she held, and her thumb-nail the month when the letter was writ
Fast-dinted, while she hung sobbing: ‘O, see, Sir, the letter is old!
O, do not be too happy!’—‘If I understand you, I’m bowled!’
Said Grandfather Bridgeman, ‘and down go my wickets!—not happy! when here,
Here’s Tom like to marry his General’s daughter—or widow—I’ll swear!

XXVII

‘I wager he knows how to strut, too!  It’s all on the cards that the Queen
Will ask him to Buckingham Palace, to say what he’s done and he’s seen.
Victoria’s fond of her soldiers: and she’s got a nose for a fight.
If Tom tells a cleverish story—there is such a thing as a knight!
And don’t he look roguish and handsome!—To see a girl snivelling there—
By George, Miss, it’s clear that you’re jealous’—‘I love him!’ she answered his stare.

‘Yes! now!’ breathed the voice of a woman.—‘Ah! now!’ quiver’d low the reply.
‘And “now”’s just a bit too late, so it’s no use your piping your eye,’
The farmer added bluffly: ‘Old Lawyer Charlworth was rich;
You followed his instructions in kicking Tom into the ditch.
If you’re such a dutiful daughter, that doesn’t prove Tom is a fool.
Forgive and forget’s my motto! and here’s my grog growing cool!’

XXIX

‘But, Sir,’ Mary faintly repeated: ‘for four long weeks I have failed
To come and cast on you my burden; such grief for you always prevailed!
My heart has so bled for you!’  The old man burst on her speech:
‘You’ve chosen a likely time, Miss! a pretty occasion to preach!’
And was it not outrageous, that now, of all times, one should come
With incomprehensible pity!  Far better had Mary been dumb.

XXX

XXXI

And that it was scarcely a bargain that she who had driven him wild
Should share now the fruits of his valour, the women expressed, as they smiled.
The family pride of the Bridgemans was comforted; still, with contempt,
They looked on a monied damsel of modesty quite so exempt.
‘O give me force to tell them!’ cried Mary, and even as she spoke,
A shout and a hush of the children: a vision on all of them broke.

XXXII

Wheeled, pale, in a chair, and shattered, the wreck of their hero was seen;
The ghost of Tom drawn slow o’er the orchard’s shadowy green.
Could this be the martial darling they joyed in a moment ago?
‘He knows it?’ to Mary Tom murmured, and closed his weak lids at her ‘No.’
‘Beloved!’ she said, falling by him, ‘I have been a coward: I thought
You lay in the foreign country, and some strange good might be wrought.

‘Each day I have come to tell him, and failed, with my hand on the gate.
I bore the dreadful knowledge, and crushed my heart with its weight.
The letter brought by your comrade—he has but just read it aloud!
It only reached him this morning!’  Her head on his shoulder she bowed.
Then Tom with pity’s tenderest lordliness patted her arm,
And eyed the old white-head fondly, with something of doubt and alarm.

XXXIV

O, take to your fancy a sculptor whose fresh marble offspring appears
Before him, shiningly perfect, the laurel-crown’d issue of years:
Is heaven offended? for lightning behold from its bosom escape,
And those are mocking fragments that made the harmonious shape!
He cannot love the ruins, till, feeling that ruins alone
Are left, he loves them threefold.  So passed the old grandfather’s moan.

XXXV

XXXVI

Up lanes of the quiet village, and where the mill-waters rush red
Thro’ browning summer meadows to catch the sun’s crimsoning head,
You meet an old man and a maiden who has the soft ways of a wife
With one whom they wheel, alternate; whose delicate flush of new life
Is prized like the early primrose.  Then shake his right hand, in the chair—
The old man fails never to tell you: ‘You’ve got the French General’s there!’

How low when angels fall their black descent,
Our primal thunder tells: known is the pain
Of music, that nigh throning wisdom went,
And one false note cast wailful to the insane.
Now seems the language heard of Love as rain
To make a mire where fruitfulness was meant.
The golden harp gives out a jangled strain,
Too like revolt from heaven’s Omnipotent.
But listen in the thought; so may there come
Conception of a newly-added chord,
Commanding space beyond where ear has home.
In labour of the trouble at its fount,
Leads Life to an intelligible Lord
The rebel discords up the sacred mount.

I

By this he knew she wept with waking eyes:
That, at his hand’s light quiver by her head,
The strange low sobs that shook their common bed
Were called into her with a sharp surprise,
And strangled mute, like little gaping snakes,
Dreadfully venomous to him.  She lay
Stone-still, and the long darkness flowed away
With muffled pulses.  Then, as midnight makes
Her giant heart of Memory and Tears
Drink the pale drug of silence, and so beat
Sleep’s heavy measure, they from head to feet
Were moveless, looking through their dead black years,
By vain regret scrawled over the blank wall.
Like sculptured effigies they might be seen
Upon their marriage-tomb, the sword between;
Each wishing for the sword that severs all.

It ended, and the morrow brought the task.
Her eyes were guilty gates, that let him in
By shutting all too zealous for their sin:
Each sucked a secret, and each wore a mask.
But, oh, the bitter taste her beauty had!
He sickened as at breath of poison-flowers:
A languid humour stole among the hours,
And if their smiles encountered, he went mad,
And raged deep inward, till the light was brown
Before his vision, and the world, forgot,
Looked wicked as some old dull murder-spot.
A star with lurid beams, she seemed to crown
The pit of infamy: and then again
He fainted on his vengefulness, and strove
To ape the magnanimity of love,
And smote himself, a shuddering heap of pain.

This was the woman; what now of the man?
But pass him.  If he comes beneath a heel,
He shall be crushed until he cannot feel,
Or, being callous, haply till he can.
But he is nothing:—nothing?  Only mark
The rich light striking out from her on him!
Ha! what a sense it is when her eyes swim
Across the man she singles, leaving dark
All else!  Lord God, who mad’st the thing so fair,
See that I am drawn to her even now!
It cannot be such harm on her cool brow
To put a kiss?  Yet if I meet him there!
But she is mine!  Ah, no!  I know too well
I claim a star whose light is overcast:
I claim a phantom-woman in the Past.
The hour has struck, though I heard not the bell!

All other joys of life he strove to warm,
And magnify, and catch them to his lip:
But they had suffered shipwreck with the ship,
And gazed upon him sallow from the storm.
Or if Delusion came, ’twas but to show
The coming minute mock the one that went.
Cold as a mountain in its star-pitched tent,
Stood high Philosophy, less friend than foe:
Whom self-caged Passion, from its prison-bars,
Is always watching with a wondering hate.
Not till the fire is dying in the grate,
Look we for any kinship with the stars.
Oh, wisdom never comes when it is gold,
And the great price we pay for it full worth:
We have it only when we are half earth.
Little avails that coinage to the old!

A message from her set his brain aflame.
A world of household matters filled her mind,
Wherein he saw hypocrisy designed:
She treated him as something that is tame,
And but at other provocation bites.
Familiar was her shoulder in the glass,
Through that dark rain: yet it may come to pass
That a changed eye finds such familiar sights
More keenly tempting than new loveliness.
The ‘What has been’ a moment seemed his own:
The splendours, mysteries, dearer because known,
Nor less divine: Love’s inmost sacredness
Called to him, ‘Come!’—In his restraining start,
Eyes nurtured to be looked at scarce could see
A wave of the great waves of Destiny
Convulsed at a checked impulse of the heart.

It chanced his lips did meet her forehead cool.
She had no blush, but slanted down her eye.
Shamed nature, then, confesses love can die:
And most she punishes the tender fool
Who will believe what honours her the most!
Dead! is it dead?  She has a pulse, and flow
Of tears, the price of blood-drops, as I know,
For whom the midnight sobs around Love’s ghost,
Since then I heard her, and so will sob on.
The love is here; it has but changed its aim.
O bitter barren woman! what’s the name?
The name, the name, the new name thou hast won?
Behold me striking the world’s coward stroke!
That will I not do, though the sting is dire.
—Beneath the surface this, while by the fire
They sat, she laughing at a quiet joke.

She issues radiant from her dressing-room,
Like one prepared to scale an upper sphere:
—By stirring up a lower, much I fear!
How deftly that oiled barber lays his bloom!
That long-shanked dapper Cupid with frisked curls
Can make known women torturingly fair;
The gold-eyed serpent dwelling in rich hair
Awakes beneath his magic whisks and twirls.
His art can take the eyes from out my head,
Until I see with eyes of other men;
While deeper knowledge crouches in its den,
And sends a spark up:—is it true we are wed?
Yea! filthiness of body is most vile,
But faithlessness of heart I do hold worse.
The former, it were not so great a curse
To read on the steel-mirror of her smile.

Yet it was plain she struggled, and that salt
Of righteous feeling made her pitiful.
Poor twisting worm, so queenly beautiful!
Where came the cleft between us? whose the fault?
My tears are on thee, that have rarely dropped
As balm for any bitter wound of mine:
My breast will open for thee at a sign!
But, no: we are two reed-pipes, coarsely stopped:
The God once filled them with his mellow breath;
And they were music till he flung them down,
Used! used!  Hear now the discord-loving clown
Puff his gross spirit in them, worse than death!
I do not know myself without thee more:
In this unholy battle I grow base:
If the same soul be under the same face,
Speak, and a taste of that old time restore!

He felt the wild beast in him betweenwhiles
So masterfully rude, that he would grieve
To see the helpless delicate thing receive
His guardianship through certain dark defiles.
Had he not teeth to rend, and hunger too?
But still he spared her.  Once: ‘Have you no fear?’
He said: ’twas dusk; she in his grasp; none near.
She laughed: ‘No, surely; am I not with you?’
And uttering that soft starry ‘you,’ she leaned
Her gentle body near him, looking up;
And from her eyes, as from a poison-cup,
He drank until the flittering eyelids screened.
Devilish malignant witch! and oh, young beam
Of heaven’s circle-glory!  Here thy shape
To squeeze like an intoxicating grape—
I might, and yet thou goest safe, supreme.

But where began the change; and what’s my crime?
The wretch condemned, who has not been arraigned,
Chafes at his sentence.  Shall I, unsustained,
Drag on Love’s nerveless body thro’ all time?
I must have slept, since now I wake.  Prepare,
You lovers, to know Love a thing of moods:
Not, like hard life, of laws.  In Love’s deep woods,
I dreamt of loyal Life:—the offence is there!
Love’s jealous woods about the sun are curled;
At least, the sun far brighter there did beam.—
My crime is, that the puppet of a dream,
I plotted to be worthy of the world.
Oh, had I with my darling helped to mince
The facts of life, you still had seen me go
With hindward feather and with forward toe,
Her much-adored delightful Fairy Prince!

Out in the yellow meadows, where the bee
Hums by us with the honey of the Spring,
And showers of sweet notes from the larks on wing
Are dropping like a noon-dew, wander we.
Or is it now? or was it then? for now,
As then, the larks from running rings pour showers:
The golden foot of May is on the flowers,
And friendly shadows dance upon her brow.
What’s this, when Nature swears there is no change
To challenge eyesight?  Now, as then, the grace
Of heaven seems holding earth in its embrace.
Nor eyes, nor heart, has she to feel it strange?
Look, woman, in the West.  There wilt thou see
An amber cradle near the sun’s decline:
Within it, featured even in death divine,
Is lying a dead infant, slain by thee.

Not solely that the Future she destroys,
And the fair life which in the distance lies
For all men, beckoning out from dim rich skies:
Nor that the passing hour’s supporting joys
Have lost the keen-edged flavour, which begat
Distinction in old times, and still should breed
Sweet Memory, and Hope,—earth’s modest seed,
And heaven’s high-prompting: not that the world is flat
Since that soft-luring creature I embraced
Among the children of Illusion went:
Methinks with all this loss I were content,
If the mad Past, on which my foot is based,
Were firm, or might be blotted: but the whole
Of life is mixed: the mocking Past will stay:
And if I drink oblivion of a day,
So shorten I the stature of my soul.

‘I play for Seasons; not Eternities!’
Says Nature, laughing on her way.  ‘So must
All those whose stake is nothing more than dust!’
And lo, she wins, and of her harmonies
She is full sure!  Upon her dying rose
She drops a look of fondness, and goes by,
Scarce any retrospection in her eye;
For she the laws of growth most deeply knows,
Whose hands bear, here, a seed-bag—there, an urn.
Pledged she herself to aught, ’twould mark her end!
This lesson of our only visible friend
Can we not teach our foolish hearts to learn?
Yes! yes!—but, oh, our human rose is fair
Surpassingly!  Lose calmly Love’s great bliss,
When the renewed for ever of a kiss
Whirls life within the shower of loosened hair!

What soul would bargain for a cure that brings
Contempt the nobler agony to kill?
Rather let me bear on the bitter ill,
And strike this rusty bosom with new stings!
It seems there is another veering fit,
Since on a gold-haired lady’s eyeballs pure
I looked with little prospect of a cure,
The while her mouth’s red bow loosed shafts of wit.
Just heaven! can it be true that jealousy
Has decked the woman thus? and does her head
Swim somewhat for possessions forfeited?
Madam, you teach me many things that be.
I open an old book, and there I find
That ‘Women still may love whom they deceive.’
Such love I prize not, madam: by your leave,
The game you play at is not to my mind.